Who's Gonna Stop The Rain?
by Magicallioness
Summary: Draco’s staying at number twelve Grimmauld Place, the home of Harry Potter since the end of the war, while facing his trail. Will he be found guilty or innocent and why does Harry care so much?


Who's gonna stop the rain

_Disclaimer: _

_Anything belonging to the HP universe belongs to J.K. Rowling and others who have bought the rights to meddle with her toys. Anything that's not is mine, unless stated otherwise. I'm just playing around here, not making money, so please don't sue. _

_Author's note's:_

_The title is taken from Anastasia's song with the same title. The story also formed in my mind while listening to that song. It helped me to keep a slow pace of writing, which is really what I want to do with this story. After rereading it a couple of times I really started to like it and I can honestly say I'm quite proud if it._

_The story's not finished nor beta'd, but I'm pretty sure it will be. _

_Please let me know, what you think of it. _

**Summary:**

**Draco's staying at number twelve Grimmauld Place, the home of Harry Potter since the end of the war, while facing his trail. Will he be found guilty or innocent and why does Harry care so much?**

Who's gonna stop the rain

Draco slowly opens his eyes and stares up at the white coloured ceiling above his head. His body doesn't move, only his eyes as they trail the two cracks in the ceilings paint that run from the place where the large chandelier is attached to the ceiling towards his bedroom door. They have been there since he first set foot in this room, probably a lot longer and they have been his anchor. His way of making sure he is still here and this is really happening. It's paradoxal he knows, because in a way it also makes all those other things real.

The first part of his body that Draco forces to move is his right hand. It crawls from underneath the heavy blanket that's covering him and reaches towards the dark oak nightstand next to his bed. His fingers trace the intricate carvings around the edges, dropping into the crevices and lines in the wood, until his hand reaches the edge of the nightstand and slides flat palmed over its smooth surface, towards his wand. His fingers curl around the wood when he finds it and starts the slow process of drawing it towards him. Every single movement takes an effort these days and no matter how much he sleeps, he feels more tired every week.

His voice is hoarse with sleep and disuse as he whispers a 'Lumos' against the gloom lingering in the bedroom. He bends his elbow and pushes his arm upwards to survey as much of the room as possible in the tiny light shining from the tip of his wand. He remembers hazily the days when his Lumos was much brighter. He remembers the days when his Lumos had been almost as bright as Harry's more vividly. It was only a few months ago, but it feels like a lifetime, like several lifetimes. The end of the war came as an immense relief and for two days Draco had truly and wholy believed everything would be all right now. The knowledge that he had been wrong had crushed him completely, rendering him incapable of hiding himself, of participating in life in general. He was taken in by the Aurors and put into Azkaban to await his trail.

The brown blanket that lies over his bed actually acquires its colour in the dim light of Draco's wand. Contrastingly, the two cracks in the ceiling almost disappear. More of the room appears in the circle his light forms around the bed. The cream coloured luxurious carpet, his slippers, placed neatly on one side of his bed, the heavy brown curtains that block the light from the window near his bed. He left the curtains open the first couple of weeks he stayed here, but the early morning sunlight that shone through it woke him, and as the weeks of interrogations went on, Draco became more and more tired and decided his sleep was more important than waking up in the light.

The trails were humiliating. All his memories were laid out for the entire Wizengamot to see. Someone in the Ministry found a way to adopt a pensieve so anyone could extract memories out of anybodies head and show it to everyone. Its use was restricted to ministry officials only, but they weren't restricted in their use of it. Having to watch dozens of wizards and witches react to his memories was excruciating. He had to endure disapproving and accusatory looks from complete strangers. Being looked upon with pity and sorrow by those he knew was far worse though. But he held his head up high and looked right back at them, every single one of them. And in the rows upon rows of accusatory, hateful and pitying faces he found one pair of bright green eyes that didn't held any emotion at all. Harry Potter simply looked at him, without judging, without pitying or voicing an opinion. He simply watched and those two green eyes became Draco's safety net. He sought them out every time he felt like he couldn't go on, he connected with them every time he was forced to give answers he didn't want to give while under the influence of Veritaserum. He still seeks those eyes, even here.

Once he's satisfied that the room is still the same one he went to sleep in yesterday, Draco stiffly pushes himself into a sitting position. He stays that way for several seconds, as if his body has to adjust to being in an upright position after several hours of lying down. Bending forward, Draco pushes the blanket down towards his feet as far as it will go. He pulls his feet from under it and plants them on the floor beside the bed one by one. His pyjamabottoms ride up his legs because the fabric in the back of his knees gets caught on the edge of the bed as he pushes his legs down. Draco bends over to pull the fabric back down over his ankles, over the thin scar that runs along the left one. The memory assaults him anyway.

It happened in the interrogation room with the rough stone floor and the portrait of Dumbledore hanging on the left wall. He had to endure watching an hours worth of his most excruciating memories with the Wizengamot looking on. Hours of images of his father teaching him, using methods that he now recognised as pure abuse.

Gripping the edge of the bed Draco fights to keep the inhumane pressure to succeed he felt that day at bay, just as he did in that interrogation room.

Two bright green eyes pulled him through, but the interrogation was not over. He knew this, because a wizard dressed in grey and black robes, carrying a small box on his hip came forward once the Wizengamot decided they had seen enough of Lucius Malfoy forcing his six year old son to kill the two rabbits he had lovingly cared for for months. The box, Draco knew, contained a vial of Veritaserum and he wondered fleetingly if the vile taste of it would ever leave his mouth again. He didn't resist it being poured down his throat; it wouldn't have helped him if he had. But he did resist its effect as soon as the barrage of questions started. They had nothing to do with his trail; they considered his most personal experiences and thoughts and were purely designed for humiliation. He was forced to retell his first sexual experience and describe the way he felt when Lucius killed his mother to the sneering face of the wizard in the grey and black robes. When they asked him how he would describe his relationship with Harry Potter he had to single out that emerald green stare, he needed to draw on its strength, but it wasn't there. And Draco panicked. He screamed to prevent his answer from working its way past his lips and he struggled against the iron chains that bound him to his chair by the ankles and wrists. He struggled so fiercely he cut his ankle to the bone and broke his wrist. The interrogation was delayed because he needed to be checked over by a healer.

Draco exhales a long breath and pushes himself off the bed. He crosses the room towards the large window barefooted because his slippers are on the other side of the bed, and closes his eyes against the bright light that spills into the room when he pulls open the curtains. The light reminds him of Harry.

Draco was still reeling from his panic attack when he was put back into his cell. The healer had healed his wounds, but judged him too unstable to continue the interrogation and ordered his guards to take him back to his cell. He didn't spend more that fifteen minutes in there after that. Harry came for him. He barked several words at the guard Draco didn't have the clarity of mind to catch and then he was there, inside Draco's cell. And he offered his hand and told Draco "You can stay with me". He didn't say anything else, but it was enough for Draco. He took Harry's hand and together, they walked out of his cell and out of Azkaban. His trail continued, but Draco now had a safe heaven to return to: the bedroom with the two cracks in its ceiling, the nightstand with its intricate pattern carved into the sides, the spacious, warm bed with his slippers placed neatly next to it and two bright green eyes.

After a while Draco's eyes adjust to the light and he can open them to look outside. The view surprises him every time. He expects vast, green grounds, like those the Manor has, because the house is as grand and luxurious as his childhood home. Instead, his vision is filled with rusted cars parked along a sidewalk overgrown with grass. Several shabby clothed figures make their way across it, all of them sidestepping the shattered bottle under the streetlight. Draco can't make out what kind of bottle it is, but he doesn't really care. None of the passers-by look up at the house and Draco feels comfortable looking down on them without them knowing it. He stands at the window for several minutes before putting on his slippers and making his way down the creaking stairs. The large standing clock in the hallway chimes as he walks into the kitchen of Number 12 Grimmauld Place.

"Good morning. Did you sleep well?" Harry greets him from behind the stove. It's the same greeting every morning as long as Draco has been living here. To Draco it seems that each time is a little more difficult for Harry. At least he hopes so, because his customary answer is to him.

"Good morning. Very well, thank you."

Draco moves next to Harry to get a cup out of the cupboard, but makes sure to keep as much distance between them as possible. Harry turns the bacon he's frying seemingly uninterested, but Draco sees the muscles in his neck tense slightly. He moves away from Harry to pour himself a cup of coffee, but Harry doesn't relax and Draco wonders why his proximity is such a strain on Harry. He thinks he'll never work up the courage to ask, because he fears the answer too much.

He drinks his coffee and watches Harry prepare breakfast for the two of them. Bacon and eggs on toast, a cracker with strawberry jam and a glass of orange juice, freshly made this morning, Draco notices.

He looks at Harry's eyes as Harry sets the plates down on the kitchen table. Green eyes, naked and open without his spectacles. Harry never told him why he got rid of those round glasses after all those years and Draco never asked. He sits down across from Harry at the kitchen table and begins cutting up his toast into edible pieces. Harry bites into his cracker with jam.

"You're tense," he observes halfway through their otherwise quiet meal.

"So are you," Draco answers and takes a sip of orange juice. He has reason to be tense, has had reason to be tense his entire life. There was always immense pressure to get it right, to be the best, to live up to expectations. There was the stress of the war, of trying to stay out of it, without it raising suspicion on either side, there had been the strain of his capture and trail and now there's another huge cloud hovering above his head, it's blackness so threatening it will eat him whole if it descends upon him. Today Draco'll receive his verdict. By owl post, so he has time to prepare if he's sentenced the Dementors Kiss for being an active supporter of Voldemort.

Draco's stomach turns in on itself and he shoves his breakfast aside. He suddenly isn't hungry anymore. Something moves in the back of Harry's eyes at his action. Draco notices Harry has barely touched his food and wonders if Harry's worried about the verdict too and if so, why? He doesn't ask though, feels like it isn't his place. He pushes his chair away from the table and rises.

"I'm going to take a shower," he anounces. Harry simply nods and turns his head away to look out the window. Harry, Draco thinks as he walks back up the stairs. The name doesn't sound alien to him anymore. Not like it did the first times he spoke it.

It was a couple of days after Harry had gotten him out of Azkaban, around the time Number 12 Grimmauld Place started to feel safe. It had been an especially difficult day of interrogation, with the Wizengamot moving dangerously close to asking him about his feelings towards Harry again and panic had hovered at the edge of his mind several times while he was under the effects of Veritaserum. The fight to keep it at bay had taken a lot out of him and Harry, perhaps sensing his exhaustion, had given him a towel upon their return and sat outside the bathroom door while he showered.

Once he stepped outside in his pyjamas and bathrobe, Harry lead him downstairs, lit a fire and helped him nestle into the large green armchair next to it. Draco sat and stared into the flames for an immeasurable amount of time and Harry brought him some sandwiches. When the fire slowed, Harry placed a warm blanket over Draco's legs and put a cup of steaming tea on the table next to his armrest. And when the fire died down, Harry guided him to his bedroom and helped him into bed, placing his slippers carefully beside it.

Draco had felt completely calm once he was in his bed, like everything would turn out all right. He felt cared for and he had never felt that way before. Thankfulness bubbled in his chest unbidden and when Harry turned at the door to ask if he needed something else, it simply boiled over, the words streaming out of his mouth with it.

"No, thank you," he answered and when Harry turned to leave he added "Harry" after a slight pause. He watched silently as Harry's slightly bowed head moved upwards. He didn't move when Harry turned and walked over to his bedside. He blinked though, when Harry knelt down to get at eyelevel and he held his breath when Harry asked him to call him by his first name.

"Can you always call me that, please? No Potter, just Harry?" he had asked. His voice had been soft, but heavy with several emotions Draco didn't recognise. Pain was the one he did recognise, but didn't understand. But even if he couldn't read it, Harry's voice caused something in the back of his throat to constrict. He didn't trust his voice to work properly, so he just nodded. It had been Harry ever since.

The bathroom of Harry's house always surprises Draco. All of Number 12 Grimmauld Place is old, luxurious and well repaired by Harry, but old. The bathroom however, is spanking new. Draco leaves his slippers at the door, partly to let Harry know he's still in there, partly so they won't get wet, and steps on the warmed wooden floor of Harry's bathroom. There's a large bathtub in the far corner, but Draco's not interested in that. He suspects Harry uses it, but really doesn't know. Draco's aim is the large shower stall in the other corner of the room. He spent weeks figuring out all the uses of that particular Muggle device in Harry's home and it turned out to be one he doesn't hate.

Draco knows exactly what he wants from it now. A touch from his right index finger brings the little display in the cabin to live. After touching several different buttons Draco finally seems satisfied with the apparatus' settings and undresses while the shower heats up. Both his pyjama bottoms and his bathrobe drop to the floor in an unceremonious puddle, minutes before Draco steps under the hot spray. He sighs a little when the shower switches to the steam and massage settings that work on the tension in his neck and shoulders.

He did this a lot the first few weeks he stayed here. The trails kept him on edge for days at a time and the tension build-up would give him all sorts of problems, from headaches to shoulders that wouldn't move anywhere to nightmares. Harry usually woke him from those. There were never comforting words or gestures, simply a "Draco, wake up. You're having a nightmare" and that would be it. Draco would nod at him and they would both go to sleep.

Harry had nightmares too, Draco knew. Once, Harry forgot to put a silencing charm around his bed. That's how Draco learned Harry slept right next door to him. Draco would never forget the terror in the scream that pierced the dark that night. But he didn't go to Harry, he never did.

When Draco returns to the kitchen after his shower, Harry hasn't moved, he's still staring out the window. Draco takes a look out on the wild overgrow of bushes and weeds himself, to see what Harry's staring at, but he doesn't see anything.

"I'm done, you're turn", he tells Harry. Harry nods in answer, stares out of the window for a moment longer before going upstairs. So little words, Draco wonders. There's so much unspoken between them that Draco sometimes fears there comes a time when they won't speak at all. The problem is, he doesn't understand why he's afraid of it.

More out of a need to occupy his hands and through them his mind, than anything else, Draco starts cleaning off the kitchen table. The months he spent here has made him familiar with the house, with its noises and the places everything has in here. He has grown comfortable here, helped by Harry's hospitality and care. Because Harry really had taken care of him, not just after difficult interrogations, but every day. Every day Harry had cooked for him, accompanied him to and from the ministry, had woken him on those rare days he didn't wake right after dawn. And there had always been a look in his eyes, a manner to Harry's movements Draco didn't understand, still doesn't understand. And he doesn't want to ask, afraid of destroying it.

Draco hears water running when he passes the bathroom on his way to his bedroom and he wonders for a fleeting moment if this means Harry is taking a shower. But the moment passes and Draco opens his closet to find something to wear. He looks at the rows of shirts hung neatly next to his pants and the few sweaters folded in a neat pile above them: everything is brand new. He didn't get to pack anything when he got arrested, nor when Harry got him out of Azkaban. Harry had taken him to buy new clothes the day after and it had been torture.

They had been gaped at, whispers rising in their wake and Draco had felt decidedly uncomfortable. He wasn't sure if they were watching Harry and whispering about him, or watching him and whispering about Harry or some weird combination of both. Draco had always been looked at either with fear, loathing or utter adoration and this uncanny whispering behind his back made him nervous, made him feel for the first time that he was no longer a respected pureblood, but a Malfoy on trail for possible war crimes. It was then he realized that for most of the Wizarding world, he would be guilty no matter what the verdict. And he knew it must have shocked everyone to see their war hero walking right next to him.

Draco had risked a sideways glance at Harry then and had seen a grim expression on his face, anger colouring his eyes an acid type of green. Draco's face had snapped back around when a heavy voice called out Harry's last name.

"Oi, Potter! What are you doing, walking around with that murderer?"

Draco still didn't know if it had been that comment or the anger that he had already seen burning in Harry's eyes, but Harry went rigid at the call and with one look, just a look, no words, levitated the speaker towards him. Green eyes flashed at the dark brown ones he was now facing.

"He's innocent until proven guilty. I advice you to remember that, unless you want to find yourself accused of similar crimes." Harry had told the man in a voice that chilled even Draco to the bone. The man suddenly dropped to the ground and Harry had started walking again without a word. Draco had followed, unable to voice his thankfulness for Harry's fierce protection of him, because he didn't understand.

Dressed in dark grey trousers and an ice blue shirt, Draco makes his way to the living room. It's spacious and slightly dark, but breathes warmth and a welcome to Draco that touches him somewhere deep inside. He walks over to the large window that looks out over the only part of the garden Harry tends too. Within a circle of lavender Harry has planted a bush that carries large red roses in the summer. There are two paths leading up to it, one from the back door of the house and one from the edge of the grounds. Friends that are close enough to Harry to enter through the back door must walk past this large circle and are therefore surrounded by the soft blue colour of the forget-me-nots Harry has used to fill up the circle. Draco understands the significance of it and looks at it often.

He finds it most beautiful in spring, when nature seems to have not yet discovered that summer is coming and there'll be days when the bright sunlight shining on the flowers is alternated with the white and blueish grey of storm clouds chasing across the sky, colouring the roses blood red and the forget-me-nots hellish blue.

Harry has been standing in the doorway for quite a while now, looking at him. Draco can see his reflection in the window. He tries to catch the expression on Harry's face in an effort to come to some sort of understanding about what is going through Harry's head, but the Harry in the window facing him is expressionless and blurry. Two bright green eyes are the only clear image Draco sees.

"I'm going out, do you want to come?" Harry suddenly asks. Surprise envelops Draco. He keeps staring out the window to cover it up; realizing now that Harry might see his reflection quite as well as he can see Harry's.

"Where to?" Draco finally wants to know. Granted, it looks like a good day outside, the type Draco likes: sunny but with the threat of rain forever hanging in the air.

"Anywhere but here," Harry answers immediately and Draco notices a slight shock going through his body as if Harry hadn't intended on saying that out loud. Draco casts his eyes down, his view shifting to the shining tiles that make up Harry's windowsill. He gently fingers a flower of one of the orchids that's standing in front of him.

"I like it here," he confesses softly, reaching out, trying to erase that Harry has said something he doesn't want to share by saying something personal himself, attempting to restore the balance. He turns around and sees a faint smile play around Harry's lips. Whether it's because of what he tried to do or because of what he said, Draco can't tell, but he does realize he hasn't seen Harry smile much.

"How about we visit the castle ruins?" Harry asks, while walking into the room and taking up a place near Draco at the window. Draco turns to look outside again, as he remembers those ruins and the first time Harry took him there.


End file.
